these are the long roads. shimmering pin points on the horizon. shy wolves hiding behind their fangs. the yellow noose. the pink discipline. broken darts and empty glasses at the bar. a desert of faces. all eyes and scabs. no voice.
these are the subtle winters. that never seem to end. bloody fishhooks in the shallow water. the spooling ethics of the hunt.
the future has its funeral. dirty claws in the meat. the smiling corpse. the abundant infection of when.
tepid surrenders. the simple suicides of touch. naive emperors drowning in their robes. distance has its advantages.
the rotting apple dares its song. memories of that first bite impossible to ignore. the hungry rider swallows the miles. content to have gone too far.
the frail twig beats the wind. searching for a song.
sharp corners forged in the remnants of when. the memories are stale bread. but hunger doesn't care. time speaks in angles and walks in circles. the wisdom of strangers is that no one really is.
we are always lost. only sometimes for so long in the same place that we start to forget.
a dwindling warmth succumbs to the winter. a fickle sun negotiates the darkness. each of us merely creases upon the faces of our demons. faint echoes of their laughter and frail shadows of their tears.
there is light only in the contrast. that's life's sinister bargain. Be it random chance or the wisdom of the universe. the flowers still must die.
Even the cold comes with conditions. Even a shiver is a hope.
Maybe the map is drawn in moments just like this one. Perhaps the victory is just taking those first steps.
We are all alone. Lost inside each other. A labyrinth of people. Chasing dwindling ghosts. All the gods. All the demons. All the drugs. Making paradise from nothing.
the fractured math of broken skin. the simple division of the scars that are left. there is no more blood, but those wounds still listen.
she cups the future in her hands. a mercury blob of catalysts. she watches it run. no edges. no center. just the chaotic path of things that don't know. never can. the agony of the beginning nor the ecstacy of the end.
the brief timeline. the splint on the heart of the child crippled. she was ready, but she never was. it came suddenly. in rich colors and slow bullets. she admitted she was not prepared. and left them to their rusted nails.
such is the child. such are the atoms. as divided as they've been. the yellow king. his crown all drenched in red.
the machine wheezes and weeps. choking on time. the monsters evolve. and we become them.
she closes her eyes. deep in flower petals and strangers. the weight of when. swaying like a pendulum. refusing to wait another minute.
the war teases its end. in fumbled kisses. and hollow dresses.
careless goodbyes. hungry pauses.
we perish everyday. in an apocalypse of skin. always repeating.
chalk in the rain. decimals in the math. dwindling remainders. as the sky turns to look at us. all wind and rain and gravity. the sober science of when. eventually betrays.
stealing a path from within the silence. the skeleton dances to the flesh's fading songs. free at last.
we like to pretend there are monsters to blame. but we're always alone in this.
paper faces crease and shiver. she traces the edge. a desperate tumult of colors suffocating in darkness. origami skin transforms. the deceptively simple art of lovers. muted storms rattle the glass. stretching gravity taut.
simple derivatives. colors confess. burning houses still ripe with poets. aching attics pale with surrender. she has her words. seldom more. falling speculates. of mice and men. the dull stab of ample bridges. too easily undone.
building the center. layering scabs like paper mache. sculpting the monsters. with poison and indifference. a bald ocean offering to drown us. an empty vessel threatening to float.
using the distance. in hungry stabs. and shallow cuts. inertia extracting just enough blood. to feed the ghosts.
down in falls. cold tame wail. rising wild. hot blue monsters. more skin than eyes.
the trembling stair. the broken song. louder still. now that we are resolved to lost.
black portals below the touch. grinning membrane and lethal guise. electric fever.
scattered hope. torn envelopes flaunt their jagged flesh. the tumbling path. the heavy numbers. thick with exceptions. and splintered crutches. for hungry men and absent gods.
the numbers stolen from her barren feasts. the ink usurped from ambivalent purgatories.
her soft demons put away their horns. pretend to sleep. though dreams seldom come.
her small time machine. traces the beast. the fury of youth in loose buttons.
The monsters worn. Pliant paper dolls. Holding faster to a broken clock. the diminishing luxury of having died before.
ten voices. one eye. the harmony of madness dances barefoot on the metling ice. sapplings and thieves paint the forest red. no days. only lingering nights. with more words than voice.
the history of skin is written in sweat and scars. the story of everything we were. are. might become. these plastic time machines break and bend. as we struggle to find what was always there.
life spills in. a drizzling rain seeping through the cracks. too shallow to drown us. too deep to allow for an escape.
dirty corners. steal their faces from sleeping gods. she chases the words. a feeble hunter threatening with broken arrows. the sickness that once made her strong now all knots and stones. Heavy ropes find the room where all those empty boxes still wait. for gravity to remember. how far.
seldom serpents manifest. a thunder of dark. tepid fangs scorn the lips. blood like flower petals. blossoms from open flesh. waiting. travelling through the pause. in stabs of conceit. backwards through time. on soft crutches and hard choices.
the hollow chamber of her grasp. the dense apparatus between her legs. the vulgar portals of all things human. swift concessions sell the song. of wet panties and soiled dresses. counting out loud. piercing each number with a grin. worn. discarded. confident monsters lurking under her bed.
so much over. taut labors curdle the charade. giants stride the marathon and tumble. next to nothing. time undresses. intent on being seduced. but all my roses are rotted. all my ironies in use.
maybe sunday was all she could threaten. as the ghosts began to stir. bone on bone. a pantomime of skin. more color than condition. sweating laboorers lost in a machine without a skeleton.
Her voice in stones. Smooth and opaque. Like cannibals reciting poetry. The treaty. Her confession mars the victory. The war chokes awake. In puzzled nightmares thick with semen.
The numbers tell their stories. Mad tortoises in lingering races. The tide clutches the sand. More salesman than artist. Leveraging the damage against a lottery of skin.
Pockets in the Earth. A funeral of kings. A panic of princes.
Colors left and hours forged. The simple weapon of choice. The obvious execution of thought. Simple enough to envy. Complex enough to hate.
Distance decides. Everything is small.
hate. dick. overdose. in that order.
fuck. stumble. kiss. forward and by division. the numbers smaller than she antcipated. history in echoes. muted stabs. more scream than blood. and the deafness that accompanies such grave choices.
red strikes the side. blue chafes the thumb. worn buttons on the bomb. destruction is only a lesson farther.
slow commotion. dances in chaos. tepid saviors. spill from the lost. blue pens. ardent embassadors. flaunt the beautiful wreckage.
trials. fluttering suicides hesitate under the bulb. judgement names her. a witness.
knife. pit. pendulum. the stories worm their way through the flesh. cuts. tears. epidemics. set the price of survival.
the drug fades. reality persists. gods set their prices. people pay them.
she dies quietly. no songs. no flowers. every day a barter. of strangers and suicides. a choke of resistance. a thunder of humility. the color red. deep in the path. tethers and veins in an economy of flesh. lies and wolves and empty pages. the blue dominion of ghosts and orphans. a mortgage of surrender thick with the debt of change.
small doors. swivel the light. tease the journey. detours in contrition. wear her in thick drapes. cold windows. fetch the dark. in decimals and halves. portions of when. fractions of who. fetid gods audit their heavens.
faces like dominoes. fingers like syringes. tumbling. no cure. no medicine.
a circus of skin. full of clowns and acrobats and animals.
a little bit of death in her pocket.
doors tremble. windows stutter. blame the atom. knowing it's too small. Simple paths to that empty place. it's always there. i just fall sleep sometimes and forget. how much they echo with people there. Save the snow for when it's dark.
the trial. like apple skins. the conviction cut grass. no numbers to name us. or give depth to this shallow trek. just chains. proliferating in empty attics. a collection of ghosts searching for lives to hold onto.
the echo of rain. the piss of nature as it chokes on us. breath. sweat. blood. parlor tricks of skin. to convince us we can feel. and be felt. and be missed. tears. cum. spit. measures of men in the absence of humanity.
the listening. terrible stories.
anthems. cataracts of the soul. blindness the only mercy in a colorless world.
the forest. the predator. the scale. that thoughtlessly weighs their abundance. chalk on her cheek. blood on her wrists. dead is nothing. alive is even less. she wears every shadow until it breaks. chasing each matchstick.
the cold flame. the sour prophet. the sweet poison. missing monsters. chasing faith.
monsters without their clothes. touch like breadcrumbs. distance like sirens. death is wonderful given the right drugs. the naked in her stare. the ovulation in her kiss. she bleeds. like her womb is perforated. she dances like the music is deaf.
lipstick on the rail. confessions of a dangerous addict. time in pleats and wrinkles. embraces the siren. Everything is stolen Everyone is a thief. borrowed skin scraping the bones that hunger beneath.
faces like waiting grenades. simple puzzles not to be solved. a fiction of choices. amongst a war of slaves. freedom has its conditions. servitude has its benefits.
the rope. knots in the continuum. places to be. checkerboards in the morality of men. paper cuts on the fist of time. barely slow it down.
the drug finds her. knows. who she is. stubbornly waits. for her to remember. who she was.
moments in time. each one a bucket full of holes. we waste our lives trying to fill.
she wallows in the frailty of the corpse. a stubborn algebra of meat and bone. try on each pause. as she would a beautiful gown. all too aware of the arrogance of circumstance.
the obvious predators poison her sleep. close enough to death that all these weapons are useless.
down to the zipper. surrendered to the ink. all the weak monsters that animate our decisions. the scrapes and howls that do the foul arithmetic. that leaves us alone again.
the purchase of penance cheap, but rare. supply and demand not withstanding. the violence of now. nervous with blood and bruises.
time chases her. as she pursues it. layers. like stuttering fountains. the certain crease of flesh. as it awakens to the void. her fingers. a pale treasure map. Scraping the soil. For suggestions of proximity.
broad leaves on thin branches. capture the sun. empty corridors steal the hunt. in swift arrows too sharp for the numbers. in cold drum beats. louder than her deafness can ignore.
the lie of survival. the crumble of skin. as if approaches the thief.
all of her choices tumble forward. confident fractions and nervous decimals. the darkness strokes her lips. the moonbeams braid her hair. the small wars in her head erupt. Consuming other locations.
the clowns hurry. thick blankets of flesh still alive in their arms. the nervous math of strangers. presses the sun to remember. blinds us.
a barren circus. stiff with hungry lions. quietly roars.
indebted to the violence she waits. for the world to forgive her.
the color of her tulip rarely changes. nervous monsters humbled by the spectacle.
the cage becomes its animal. panting metal. finds comfort in blood.
their choices belonging to things they cannot see. atoms and molecules. and the science of strangers. years like a pendulum. swayed by the thrust of inertia. indifferent to the force that gave it that first push.
her grave is impatient. as she lingers on his eulogy. she's closer to it every day, even with all those people that get in the way.
the slope. the simple surrender. that distorts the cliff. as she calculates the slender distance. between heroes and villains. and the monsters they choose to worship.
the colors. the prism of skin. that works to refract. the dull light that pierces. these stubborn caverns.
the madmen. with their tunnels collapsing. the addicts with their dwindling heavens.
selling lost for a profit.
numbers. thumbs. chimps.
the eye unfolding like an uncertain bridge. steps too close. edges scraping.
the light coughed. the dark chose. each one dying of the same disease. in different poses.
she drew him. smudges and pencil scars. paper swords. left in empty stones. to draw upon. in nervous floods of ink. the grin of distant stars. hungry ghosts. to color in blank faces. and try on fallowed skins. dead leaves. a mosaic of faces. reap. the hollow.
the pantomime continues. a whisper of madness. small comfort against the roar of mediocrity.
blunt gods. without their guns. waste their munitions. on similar corpses. fallen leaves. soften the edges of broken glass.
listening. deaf hours. blind years. still find us. wanting.
she outgrew the math. like neanderthal. climbing laborious ladders. up to locked windows. down to empty cellars. the drudgery of numbers her only tether. as the world became helium. the pale gravity of men. weaker than she thought. as it all disappeared into the shrug of an indifferent atmosphere.
space.
making us large. feverish children sucking on the splinters of popsicle sticks.
space.
proving us small. in quiet confessions. scrapes of flesh. too lean to wear. thin crutches. bland surrenders. brighter than all this darkness.
the lion. his fangs on the sun. biting down. pretending he's not hungry.
time in pale reversals. games of checkers. spoil the board. as her king dances against the check. a stubborn devil on the perimeter of perdition. repairing the apple that was bitten. with the bones of orphans.
time wakes her up. ignites that soft inferno. boiling in her fist. she pets the wolf with one hand and cuts it open with the other.
the fairy tale becomes her. breadcrumbs in the forest. stale enough to follow.
the mechanics of men. uglier than she had anticipated.
listen to the vein. silent curtain. deaf bridge. between need and want. critical stranger. under the skin.
if i could build a time machine i wouldn't need to. that is the paradox.
a bite of shame. a chew of submission. barefoot on cold ceramic. the sway of the tiles underfoot. as the Earth exhales.
position is relative. duration inherent. the wind bends as she walks into the storm. a perpetual clock. Always at the beginning. Always at the end.
the hours manipulate. tensile puzzles. beat the sand. manias of mortality. sway to the music of addicts. in floods of ink. in wrinkles of when. all that now is real refracts. is splintered under the scrutiny of distance's dead stare.
she rights her tilting dolls. envying their plastic limbs. frozen fingers. still cradling what was never there.
I have this time machine.
I just don't know what to do with it.
the years pronounce our names in garbled stutters. the pitch. fractions possess the whole. the point of the needle. as it delivers its hollow praise.
arriving in stabs. the blunt thrust of time. i failed to spend. worthless now.
he says it happened then. but you won't remember. he says it was once, but no longer can. frayed baskets dense with choices. i made before i knew that i had them.
the container leaks. numbed by the auctions. the providence of flesh. builds its kingdom from the remnants of heaven.
there are threads. stitches she dutifully sews. seams in the mountain as it erupts. pauses in the numbers. that admit. they don't know. there are oceans. waves that break too close. the wilt of colors. as they scribble their bridges.
There are distances. we can't measure. numbers louder than we can count.
integers imagine the text of touch. in negative and positives. cosine and differential equations. sometimes the decimal goes too far.
and we are alone. without the numbers that made us whole.
scribbling on her pussy. cuts like ink. bleed through the cautions of time. the shortcomings of men.
the future in fractions of skin. puzzles to solve. and broken fingernails in the crease of the wolf's grin. to fool the piglets and their houses.
the hours in useless lamps. all her choices dead bulbs.
she can see in the dark, but not well enough to know. whether the remainders are friend or foe.
little hens. sitting on their eggs. as the sky falls down around them. and in between we tell our stories. the villain of math. the myth of time. pulling that magnet. closer.
the clouds are too low. and the her dress is soiled. with the answers to questions she's has not asked. her thighs a kaleidoscope. shifting and turning. in a million colors of when. it had to hurt. the real still gasping for air inside the burgeoning vacuum.
her meal in numbers. her promise in years. yet to come or already passed still to be determined. her eyes closed. a blind machine barrelling through so much hunger.
her paper dolls on the table. eager cards in a long standing bluff. her wagers all in skin. and numbers. her scissors prepared to cut.
her meat lost in the journey. her bones owed to the destination. the sum of her choices still uncertain.